The
sixth night, ungodly stiff, jeez your back, the mattress hard as
a church pew, the young ones stabbing your kidneys, your breasts,
with elbows and heels, or breathing all over your face and if
there’s one thing you can’t tolerate, the thing
heading the list, Sayward Tyne’s great list of things not
to be tolerated, it is that: the hot breath of a sleeper
competing with yours, never mind that it’s coming from your
own wee one. There’s a draft that’s got your
nose all runny now and the cover’s bunched about the two
children, clenched under arms and legs curled about in it,
blankets worn thin years ago, and now the ear’s starting to
ache. Ear’s aching, nose running, cold, stiff, the pain in
the back, a permanent sort, nothing to feel good about—not
here, not now— ‘cept maybe that they’re too
young to know what’s going on and they like new places and
they ate thrice today and they’re sleeping warm.

You’ve
fucking done it to yourself again, Sayward, the fucking princess
of fucking up. But no, he needed it, the son of a bitch,
needed a good jolt this time. I’ll not be married to
the man, him knocking me about, fucking strangling me this time,
and it was the red marks there about my neck that earned me the
week in the safe house. You should have seen old Sayward,
running her fingers rough along those marks all night that night,
making sure they didn’t go away, ‘cause they were too
good to be true is all. Marks are hard to come by—he’s
usually careful about leaving any marks. That’s why
he likes to hit the back of your head and yank you about by the
hair. I’d rather he broke the nose, really, ‘cause
then you can wear it up front, point to it, say see what the son
of a bitch did to me. But it’s hard to explain a
fucking lump on the head, no broken skin, no bleeding, no broken
bones, no visible bruises. Actually, she could hold her own
with Nathan most times, and he only cut loose on her when she got
up in his face and accused him of fucking about, or bitched at
him ‘bout his drinking. And truth be told, I’d
done my share of shoving and slapping. Busted his lip good
one night. But he had it coming this time. There was
a definite lack of balance, now, with him winning every time and
fucking around, you know he’s been fucking around, and
staying out till dawn some nights and not wanting to touch you,
and by god there aren’t a handful of men that he works with
that wouldn’t give a week’s salary to be touching old
Sayward. They’ve said as much and he’s heard
them when she used to work a man’s job, a real job, side by
side with them. But that was before the accident.

Well,
you can’t have it, can’t let yourself be a fucking
coward, gotta stand apart there and say well fuck you and your
house and your fucking temper and your drinking and your fucking
whore whoever she is and you’ll not have the pleasure of
touching me again. He can just go jack himself in a
corner. Cause you’re not nothing, you know, Sayward,
you’re still fine. I’ve kept myself fit, I
have, running after these kids here. And the accident
hadn’t slowed her down too much, even though there were
limitations. Good to go—could go a round with any
man, I could. But Nathan’s an ox, got the brain of an
ox, too, but got the heart big as one most times and that’s
what you’re missing, Nathan’s big arms wrapping you
up while you sleep, laying here, cold and stiff, in a house that
don’t belong to you nor to anyone you know even.

Safe
house, my ass, the car parked out front, all he’s got to do
is ride by and see it. Not a soul here to keep him from
busting through that door, knocking the life out you, and hauling
off the kids. A cop that drives by with his spotlight
facing the house twice a night. I know because I can’t
sleep nights. No curtains on the window here by the
bed—there’s your draft—and I keep looking at
those black sheets of glass thinking maybe a face will pop up.
How safe is that? Could shoot a person sleeping right here
in this bed through that window. What’s to stop you?
A chain link fence out back that any little thief could hurdle?

The
first night here, there’d been a light flashing about in
the yard inside that chain link fence and when she knelt beside
the window, squinting into the darkness, she saw it was a man
prowling about with a flashlight. Your heart takes a hit of
adrenalin when you see the likes of that, and Sayward freaked and
screamed into the den of the house and the two black girls that
were co-occupants of the house snuffed out a joint they’d
been sharing, saying what you talking ‘bout girl? Each
grabbed one of my elbows and pulled me down to the floor—what
you see Sayward? And the one said to the other, Nicole, go
look out back? Nicole stared wide--suck what? And the
bossy one rolled her eyes—nigga, please, get your fucking
claws off me. I go.

Course
it was only a policeman walking the premises with a flashlight,
checking the windows ‘cause there was a new girl in the
house. Sayward, the new girl. The two black girls
started pumping perfume in the air and when they opened the door
and let the officer in, I told him--you scared the shit out of me
‘cause my old man said if I took the kids and left he’d
kill me and I knew you were him, or one of his friends. You
should have seen the look on the black girls’ faces—your
old man got a contract out on you? The lady brought you
here didn’t say nothing ‘bout no contract on you.
Well, that’s it—I ain’t staying in no house
with nobody that’s got no contract on ‘em. You
tried to explain to them, not a contract really, he only said it
was so. But the bossy one was pulling a pair of jeans over
her fat hips in a flurry of movements, saying Your husband a
white man? White men say they gone kill you, I don’t
fuck around with ‘em. Black men say it all day
long—in one ear and out the other--but a white man—ever
heard of a serial killer that was a black man?—no, white
mens be serious talking about fucking you up. Then, let’s
go, says the bossy one to the other who was dressed already.
They headed out the front door, big purses flopping against their
hips and I’d stood in the door and watched them walk down
the sidewalk to the street, mumbling to themselves. Fuck
‘em. I crawled back into the bed with my kids.

You
can’t sleep after something like that and a window like
that right by the bed and all. But it didn’t matter
anyway, ‘cause an hour after they left, the lady in charge
of the house was bringing them back. Seems the cops had
picked them up and called her to come get them at the station.
So the doorbell’s ringing an hour later and you get up and
look out the front window. There they stand, arms crossed,
the bossy one rolling her eyes at me peeping at her through the
window. And old Sayward was nervous about opening that
door, I can tell you, ‘cause the look on the lady’s
face, she was pissed as two cats with their tails knotted
agether. And then she’s on you like white on
rice—what on earth did you tell these girls?—well I
hope you know you have scared them silly—you have truly
caused a disruption here. And you want to know what the
fuck right this bitch thinks she has to be up in your face,
pissing and moaning like that—this is a safe house, ain’t
it? Aren’t they in danger, too? Or no?
They just hanging out here, is that what you trying to tell me?
You should oughta be bitching at them, lady, they’re the
ones broke the house code--leaving without permission—leaving
at night. You should have told me, she goes, you should
have told me of the death threats. It does make a
difference, you see. Tomorrow, you’ll need to see if
you can move your car into the back yard. I don’t
know if it’ll fit through the gate back there, but it’s
not good for it to be sitting out front.

The
two girls sat themselves down on the loveseat in the den.
The bossy one grabbed the remote and turned the tv on.
Loud. The lady of the house left and I locked the door
behind her. I turned, stared. The quiet one flung a
finger toward me without taking her eyes off the tv—you
stay the fuck on your side of the room—don’t want you
no where near me—I ain’t taking no stray bullet aimed
at your narrow ass.

The
next morning, there we stood, Sayward and the lady of the house,
standing behind the big beige Impala, staring, their hands
cupping their elbows, perplexed. The Impala was
wedged just inside the gate, the side mirrors the only thing
stopping it from going through. It would have been the perfect
place for it, the lady said, what with the vines growing all up
around the fence that way. We sighed defeat and I re-parked
the car in the front where it’s been all this time.
I’d been told the rules--no contact with anyone for seven
days—no phone for seven days—no leaving the house for
seven days—no leaving the house after seven days unless you
let her know where you’re going—no leaving the house
at night—no male visitors—no liquor, drugs.
There was an attorney affiliated with the house. You were
to make arrangements for restraining orders before the seventh
day—no need to leave the house—the attorney would
come there.

What
are your plans—do you have any plans? Now, there’s
the gist of the fuck-up, I suppose. Not a plan one when I
left the day before, only to get away with the kids before he got
home. Be packed and ready when I get home, Nathan had said
that morning. I don’t give a fuck where you go, but
you ain’t taking them kids. And you ain’t
staying here. What do you do? You got to one up him.
A choice like that—nothing to do. You got to regain
an ounce of control over the situation. Course the marks
get you into the safe house, and thank christ for them, ‘cause
there’s no where else, her parents off somewhere in a
Winnebago—no childhood home left—they’d sold it
for the Winnebago and given up their roots to go traveling about,
playing host and hostess at camping resorts all over the country
and into Canada. They wouldn’t want to be bothered in their
happy retirement by the likes of this. You wouldn’t
for the world bother them, either. Most of your friends are men
you used to work with, men you and Nathan used to work with, and
they were sure to take his side and you couldn’t just go
off living with some man who might take you in, Sayward, not with
the kids and all. Course, the lady here says put him out,
the courts will give you the house, you’ve got the kids to
raise. But it’s his house, you tell her, his
grandmother’s old place—can’t be right to take
over his grandmother’s old place. And if you did, if
by chance you talked yourself into doing something that low, the
place is fifteen miles out in the boondocks—how the hell do
I get back and forth to work everyday with that gas guzzling
monster out front and its bald tires—and how do I keep
insurance on it—with the kind of job I can get, my back
busted and all, not being able to work a man’s job
anymore—I’d be working minimum wage, you can bet,
just enough to pay the child care for watching the kids while I
work. Then how am I suppose to pay the electric bill and
get food and lady don’t talk food stamps to me, don’t
go there. He’ll have to pay child support, the lady
interrupts. He’ll have to make sure to keep insurance
on the kids and you’ll most likely get the house and he’ll
pay you child support. Then you look at her in her maize
power suit with her little earrings to match and pumps sure to be
leather and you know she hasn’t got the foggiest, not the
foggiest idea what Sayward is talking about. Lady, she
says, we ain’t got insurance to begin with. And it’s
all we can do to pay for what we got right now. We’re
just scraping along the bottom here. And you think he’s
supposed to be able to do all he’s doing now, plus find
himself a place to live? Look, I say to her, and here’s
Sayward now, making up her mind, knowing damn well what she’s
going to do when her seven days are up, you lose everything,
maybe you end up like me, just scraping by. Maybe you won’t
wear that nice yellow suit and leather on your feet. Maybe
you’ll wear tennis shoes and jeans from K-mart and pull
your kids out of that private school you probably got them in.
Me, lady, us, me and Nathan—that’s where we’re
at right now. Any lower down, any harder than that and we
go to stealing what we need. Got me? She didn’t
get me. Just blagged on—there’s government
sponsored day care centers based on how much you make—there’s
government sponsored housing—there’s welfare, for
christ sake, there’s Medicaid. Give me a fucking
break. Like any of it’s a choice to make. You
don’t choose that shit, fuck sake. You’re
shoved into it—it’s not a viable option. Leave
a home in the country for the projects? Put your kids in
free day care? Choices, my ass.

Course,
Nathan, he’s got the advantage—he knows it.
He’s got a place, he can make the money. He can
provide. Only once in my life could I say that—only
once has Sayward felt on top of things—and that’s
when Nathan taught her to weld. Then we worked the
construction hotsheet over as a team. I did the spot
welding, he did the pure burn. We worked up high, ‘cause
the heights didn’t bother us, and you’re safer there,
you know, no one dropping shit on you from above, no one pissing
on you. And for eight months, it felt good, going home
tired as Nathan, bringing home a paycheck equal to Nathan’s,
fucking proud I was to hear him say I could keep up with the best
of ‘em out there, light on her feet walking them beams in
the air, ever see anybody walking tip-toe ‘cross a beam in
Red Wings? he’d ask about and point to her. Never seen
nothing like it. And christ, they could fuck those nights,
tired as they were, they went at each other, and teased each
other up on the beams by day. He’d come up behind
her, ten floors up they’d be, press her against a steel
column and rub against her till the entire crew on the ground was
whistling and hollering up at them. He’d reach around
front and squeeze her breasts through her coveralls and she’d
reach behind and grab his ass. The supervisor would break
up the audience on the ground and shout up to them to save it for
when they got home—they weren’t getting paid to fuck
around on the job. Then at home, the kids in their room
asleep, they fucked with the same intensity they’d felt ten
floors above the ground, fucked like they had a fucking audience.

But
that was forever ago. Before the fall. And now you’re
fucking stretched on the edge of a super-size cot with the kids,
in the barest of houses, a nice house, but nothing homey ‘bout
it, with one small toy box full of broken toys that the kids are
already bored with, a small shelf of books with pages missing and
pages scribbled on, and you with insomnia from day one, waiting
for the morning, day seven, so you can make your call, tell the
man your coming home, but things have got to change. He
should be ‘bout ready to buckle by now. Six days and
nights, no word from you, no word ‘bout you or the kids,
wondering maybe if he’ll ever see you again. He
should be past the anger now. Should be into that sort of
numb, weepy stage. Should be ready to break. And
Sayward, you got to do it, got to break him every now and then,
‘cause if you don’t, he gets too big, too damn
tough-hearted to even touch. Tomorrow night we’ll
sleep together again. He’ll want me, maybe as much as
he used to before the accident.

It’s
the fucking fall that ruined it all and, sure, you tried to sue
the sons-a-bitches, but they blamed the thing on Nathan and then
banned husband-wife teams from working together as if the whole
thing was the result of a distraction. But really it was my
own fault, a slight forgetfulness on my part. Nathan and I
were working cross the beams, eighty feet up, cutting across from
one to another over a thick plank of plywood. It meant
latching on with your safety harness and disconnecting again
every time you had to move back across a beam. It was a lot
to remember. And Nathan and I shared that plywood.
Sometimes he had to move it to cross to a different beam.
When I fell, he’d just moved the plywood. I knew it,
had seen him do it, but didn’t remember till that one foot
was out there in the air and then it was too late. I’d
disconnected to move across to Nathan and then I was free
falling. I was lucky really, could have fallen the whole
eighty feet, could have burst open like a ripe watermelon on the
concrete below, but I landed into an empty scaffold on top of a
bucket about twenty feet down and swayed back and forth on there
till they lifted me down in a basket using the crane. Then
came back surgery—a broken vertebra, but no spinal
damage—wiring the pieces of bone back together. Then
therapy with the motto “chase the pain, but don’t
catch it.” And pain pills that made me want to sleep all
the time. And hired help to watch the little ones while I
recuperated. And we ate through the savings then and sold
the boat. Three months later, here comes Sayward’s
medical release—can return to work—light duty.
That means tool shed attendant, fire watch maybe, front
dispatcher. It meant squat. There isn’t a
construction site in the world you can work on once you answer
that little question on the application that says have you ever
received an injury to your back. End of me doing man’s
work. End of me doing anything that will make a decent living—the
classic non-skilled American female fuck-up—dysfunction to
follow. Then the law suit fell through after the lawyer had
Nathan full of hope for a settlement close to five-hundred
thousand. Fuck it. A man spills hot coffee all over
himself and gets millions. I spill from eighty feet up and
get squat. Story of Sayward’s life.

It
was also the end of great fucking as far as Nathan was
concerned. Not that I couldn’t, or that I can’t,
but Nathan kept running into new limitations and it hindered
him. Couldn’t do the grind any more, the slow belly
grind atop him, just couldn’t get her back flexible enough
for it, with him reaching and squeezing her small breasts in his
hands, pinching her pips till she winced and smiling at her,
biting his bottom lip, all tough, giving all to Sayward, sweaty,
strong Sayward, the old Sayward, full of sex, bring it on she
was, but she couldn’t bear it now, not that, nor the way he
fucked her with her knees bent and pressed against her breasts,
her feet on his chest, holding the drunk bastard steady while he
slopped in and out of her, fucking acrobats they were, but fuck,
she wasn’t Gumby, you know, she couldn’t limber up to
it is all, christ, what fucking difference it makes, it made, for
them though. Ah, but she’d liked it, that wide meaty
chest, her wee painted toes pressing into him there, the cool
drops of sweat that would fall from his hair to pool on her
belly, the feeling of being racked, his weight pinning her tight,
the way he’d growl, growl loud like a grizzly when he came,
one long fucking growl and christ she loved that moment, Sayward
craved that moment and she never ever wanted to share that kind
of moment with anyone else but him since him. No, only him,
you really, really only want to fuck him, all these years and
christ he knows every inch of Sayward, he does, knows how her
body works, and you think about him not being happy with you
anymore, you know, you think about all these things, but you
can’t help but think it, the way you have to guzzle him
down your throat just to bring him to life now, Sayward rubbing
about, long smooth legs, up and down against him, rubbing just so
against him, just so he’ll feel a nipple stiff or feel
Sayward wet, Sayward needy, and for what use christ sake, ‘cause
she’ll have to do it, have to resort to it, the long winded
guzzling act, guzzle, fucking guzzle, just to feel him hard, and
christ the chore of it, the fucking jaw-ache of it all, but what
gets you is that it used to do with just a leg, the smooth
fucking leg and shit the times you’ve come out the bath and
had the iron waiting you—no guzzle, no leg, just fucking
anticipation. But that was before and what’s done is
done and I can’t change that. What’s there to
do?

You
sit up slowly in the bed, and move to the door. The black
girls are giggling from the den and you smell the pot burning.
They see me come out and roll their eyes. Look at them
looking at me and them all dressed up in tight dresses, the
cleavage blooming above the necklines. What time is it, I
ask, and the bossy girl says its about time to go and she and the
quiet one slip off the love seat, snub out their joint and head
to the door. I look at my watch. Two a.m.. Late
start tonight, ladies, I say, and the door shuts behind them.
Every night, the same thing. You can’t figure the
deal with them.

I
grab my cigarettes off the counter in the kitchen. About
out. Yeah, Sayward, time to go home. You know when
you run out of cigarettes, girl, its time to go home. Five
dollars in my pocket. Just enough gas to get there.
Maybe you shouldn’t call first. Maybe you should just
show up. No, Sayward, you gotta call. He’s
gotta ask you to come back. You can’t let on that
you’re gonna anyway. She goes out the back door, sits
on the cool concrete step, a light bulb blazing above her head.
She lights her cigarette. It ain’t so bad. Maybe
it’ll be good again. There’s a fogginess to the
back yard around her, the grass needing to be mowed, a smelly
garbage can beside the steps, the lid on the ground beside it.
She walks down the steps, picks the lid up from the ground, and
places it firmly on the trash can. That’s better,
now. Nothing worse than old stinky garbage. Another
of those things not to tolerate on Sayward’s great list.
She walks into the yard a ways, the grass wetting her feet, and
she balances on one foot trying to pinch up little pieces of
grass with her toes. She takes the last puff of the
cigarette, watching the smoke as it hits the foggy air. She
shivers and turns to go back into the house. There’s
an explosion, and the feel of a hot nail catching the edge of her
upper arm. She’d felt the gown tug across her arm.
And the instinct to fall came right along with a sudden loss of
balance, the coward’s instinct to lay down. To not
move. She heard a car start up and then she heard, clearly
heard, a man speaking excitedly. And what Sayward heard was
either Got her or It’s not her and then the sound of the
car shifting gears, first, second, third. Even before she
lifted herself from the ground there, she was struggling for
recall—Got her or It’s not her? Which, dammit,
cause it makes a fucking world of difference. And you
decide on the last. It’s got to be the last.

What
a mess, it is, fucking blood running down off the tips of her
fingers. Sayward, you’ve gone and done it this time,
but no, it’s not so bad, just like a bad cut is all, right
across it went, thank god. Just hold the towel there a
while; it’ll be alright shortly. You change out of
your gown, is what you can do now, and you wait. Wait for
the crack of dawn and then you call and then you go home.
Enough of this place. There’s not one bit of hope in
this place. Not one bit of hope in anything except going
home. He’ll be different now. It’ll be
good now.

At
the first light of day, I do it—I call. One ring.
That’s all it takes for him to answer the phone and he’s
all baby, what are you doing to me, I’ve been dying here,
fucking going nuts here, I didn’t mean it, never meant for
you to leave, christ, you know me better, don’t you?
Baby, shit, you gotta come home, I’m sorry, I’m
sorry, I can’t make it without seeing my babies, I miss the
hell out of my babies, and you, goddamn, what’s going on in
your mind? There you go, Sayward, getting nuts on me—fuck,
baby, I love you. Damn, you know I love you.

When
the kids wake up, you tell him, you’ll come home. You
guess. And that is that and it was better than I ever
thought. Broke him, you did, that attitude of his.
The great balancing act’s not so wopsided anymore.

Wake
the little ones. Dress them. Where’s your sock,
Boo, I thought I had everything right here? Well, never
mind then, never mind. You want to go see Daddy?
Yeah! Let’s go, c’mon, hustle, hustle, gotta
hurry. Wash the faces. Brush the little bits of
teeth. And you there, Sayward, you there in the mirror, you
still got it, you do, and he’ll hold you tonight. And
maybe before tonight. Maybe even when you walk in the door.

You
pull into the drive and park the car and he swoops up Boo and you
carry the toddler and he can’t say a word, not one thing,
his lips are quivering just so, this big ox of a man with his
lips trembling, and you want to kiss him, kiss him for the
longest, longest time and at the door, he lets Boo in first and
then takes the toddler in and tells Boo to take him in the living
room, turn on the tv. And, now Sayward, he turns to you,
just he and you on the porch outside the back door, and he
reaches with a slow hand behind his back, tugging, and with a
steady arm brings it out and to you, his 9mm, right up close to
your forehead and with the other hand, he grabs a handful of hair
in back of your head. Down, Sayward, fucking down you go,
on your knees, you will never do anything like that to me again,
you hear, and you’re sure the gun is cutting into your
forehead, you’ve never had anything pressed into your head
quite that hard before. And for about twenty seconds you
think he’s absolutely capable of pulling the trigger.
Don’t fuck up, Sayward, don’t do one single thing to
fuck-up. But there’s nothing else to do—I reach
up and with the back of my hand, I press softly on his extended
arm, smiling at him, and the gun doesn’t press as hard
against my forehead. With my other hand I touch the side of
his leg feeling his calf muscle tense under his jeans. I
reach up to his belt and hook my fingers over it and pull hard to
stand back up and he’s letting me, got his fingers in my
hair, still pulling downward, but he’s letting me up and
that’s all I need. ‘Cause you’re fucking strong
you are, fucking bulletproof, don’t mind that the knees are
weak as noodles. Up, and wrap the arms around his neck, that
thick neck, hot on your lips, the shoulders solid. You will
never do that to me again. No, Nathan, never. I would
never. And look at him now all broke, all leaning on
Sayward, crushing the air out her with his arms.

Judy
Wilson is originally from Virginia. She spent the decade of
the ‘90s in the deep South, first wrapping up her Ph.D. at
The University of Southern Mississippi under the tutelage of the
Barthelme brothers and Mary Robison, and then serving as the
Director of the Alabama Center for Literary Arts. Currently, she
is the Director of Creative Writing at Southwest Minnesota State
University in Marshall, Minnesota. Her work has appeared or is
forthcoming in various publications including the Southern
Literary Festival Anthology, Skylark Literary Annual, Mississippi
Review, Der Brennende Busch, Product, Antietam Review, The
Atlantic Monthly’s Atlantic Unbound, Caprice, Urban
Pioneer, Reed Magazine, Out of Line Anthology, Oregon Literary
Review, Buffalo Carp, Carve Magazine, Front Porch Journal,
Farming Words and others. She has received a number of awards
for her fiction including the Southern Literary Festival Award
for Best Short Fiction, the Joan Johnson Writing Award, the
Henfield Foundation’s Transatlantic Review Award, and the
Truman Capote Fellowship.